


Blaming the Gun

by Lauralot



Series: Alexander Pierce should have died slower [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bed-Wetting, Courtroom Drama, Delusions, Depression, Diapers, Gen, Humiliation, Legal Drama, Mental Instability, Non-Sexual Age Play, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Shame, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The United States government puts the Winter Soldier on trial.</p><p>That's hardly the best thing for Bucky's health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blaming the Gun

**Author's Note:**

> Parts of this story were shaped by comments from [YumiSayama](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/15125280), [Lyndsay](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/17601533), [celestialskiff](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/21624470), and [WhatEvenAmI](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/20248733), among others.
> 
> This is partially a courtroom drama, and I did try to make it plausible, but I have to admit that legal realism came second to storytelling. So if you see any glaring flaws, let's just pretend that the law works a little differently in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

**“You’re blaming the gun instead of the person pulling the trigger.”**

— Steve Rogers, _Captain America_ #12, Ed Brubaker

  


“Did you get any sleep last night?”

Sam waits until Steve’s stepped out of the kitchen to ask and, much as Bucky’s been dreading the question, that’s a small comfort. Steve always carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and Bucky’s not about to add another burden.

“Two hours,” he mutters, staring down into his smoothie. Two hours isn’t a lie, not really. It’s just rounding up. Bucky was out for one full sleep cycle, long enough for the nightmares to start. Long enough to piss the bed and wake himself.

His mind wouldn’t settle after that, thoughts rustling in his skull like a startled bird. Maria Hill’s opening statement kept repeating in his head for hours on end. _HYDRA’s crimes were laid bare for the world to see,_ she’d said. _We’re not here to argue that no one died at the Winter Soldier’s hands. But there’s another victim in each of these cases that we cannot overlook, and that victim is James Barnes._

 _Victim._ Bucky takes a drink. The smoothie tastes like ash, but everything’s tasted like ash in the weeks since the trial’s started. _Victim._ He wonders if the jury found that as laughable as all the commenters on the Internet. He wonders what the Internet’s saying now. JARVIS has blocked his access to all mentions of himself and the case online. Which is probably for the best, but not knowing what’s been said allows his imagination to run rampant in the night.

“Can’t fall asleep or can’t stay asleep?” Sam asks.

He shrugs. “Depends on the night.” Half the time his brain won’t unwind enough to let his body rest. The other half, the nightmares and wet sheets wake him, and the stress from the dreams prevents him from slipping back under.

“Missing something?”

Bucky raises his head as Natasha walks into the kitchen. She looks fresh out of the tower’s gym, her hair pulled back and an empty water bottle in her right hand. The other hand is holding Bucky Bear.

“You must really be exhausted,” Natasha says, setting the bear on the table. “I went to make sure you were up and he was still sitting on your pillows.”

“Thank you,” Bucky mutters, chewing on the straw of the smoothie.

They’d tried, at the start of the trial, to leave Bucky Bear behind, worried it would look flippant to bring a teddy bear. Flippant, or like a cheap emotional ploy. The people on the Internet had said the same of the Christmas picture Darcy put on Facebook, with Bucky sitting on Santa’s lap. Once it went viral, there’d been an outrage. Every news station had covered it.

During the first day of the trial, Bucky had spent the whole of a recess in the restroom, vomiting from stress. Since then, Bucky Bear’s been allowed to come. He stays concealed in Maria’s purse whenever the court is in session, but at least he’s there. The bear’s not afraid of the dark or small spaces, so he doesn’t mind the purse.

“You have your vest?” Natasha asks, lingering at the table.

A nod. The pressure vest from Pepper is currently concealed under his suit, its gentle force always lingering at the edge of his perception. Sometimes, as the prosecutor’s spoken, it’s all that’s kept Bucky upright. It’s a different sort of constriction than the tie around his neck, a soothing one.

“You really oughta give sleeping pills a shot, Bucky,” Sam says. “I know it’s not ideal, but even your body can’t sustain this. They can come up with something that works with your metabolism.”

“And while they’re tinkering with it, I’d be passing out in the courtroom.” He doesn’t say that the prospect of drugged sleep makes his blood run cold, no matter how different the circumstances from cryostasis. Even if he could sleep, he’d just be trapped in the nightmares and wake with ammonia dried down his legs.

“When I was recruited to SHIELD, I couldn’t sleep.” Natasha crosses the room, opening the dishwasher to deposit the water bottle inside. “I’d wake up thinking I was—well, it took months to settle into anything resembling a healthy pattern. Clint knew. When he could, he’d slip into my bed. There was something about knowing I wasn’t alone—on a subconscious level, I think that helped.”

Bucky stares at the floor, remembering the last time he’d slept beside anyone.

“So if you ever need a sleepover—”

“I can’t share beds.”

Natasha doesn’t push it. Bucky would be grateful, except there’s a silent thoughtfulness to her face that can’t possibly end well.

Except Steve walks back in just as Bucky says it.

Steve is sliding his phone into his pocket and there’s a flash of hurt on his face. A small part of it’s probably because he’s surmised that Bucky isn’t sleeping. But most of the hurt, Bucky’s sure, is due to the lying.

The only time Bucky’s shared a bed in the tower, it was with Steve. Apart from Bucky’s therapists, Steve is one of two people living who know why he can’t sleep beside anyone. And the only reason that isn’t an issue Steve’s been worrying or nagging about lately is because Bucky said it had stopped.

One more thing for Steve to stress over. One more thing to make Bucky feel guilty.

“Well, if you ever change your mind, let me know,” Natasha says. She pats Bucky Bear’s head and then she’s moving past Steve and through the doorway. “Good luck today.”

“Trouble sleeping?” Steve asks.

“JARVIS,” says Bucky, staring into the smoothie again. “Can you shut off my arm?”

The courts had wanted to remove Bucky’s arm entirely, arguing that it constituted a weapon. But the arm can’t come off that way, so instead they settled for depowering it. Tony placed a transmitter inside so that he doesn’t have to dig around and poke at the wiring every morning before they go to court.

 **POWERING DOWN NOW, SERGEANT BARNES,** JARVIS says, and the arm goes slack and very heavy. He wonders if this is how they’ll keep it in prison, or if they’ll force him to remove as much as can be taken without causing harm.

“I’m okay,” Bucky mumbles, and Steve doesn’t push it. He just takes Bucky Bear in one hand and guides Bucky with the other, starting them off toward the elevator.

The defense begins today.

*

Maria says that they’re lucky in a way. Because of the files leaked online, they don’t have to argue about whether or not Bucky committed the crimes he’s accused of. They only have to present their cases for culpability. If the prosecution had to present evidence for all fifteen counts of murder alone, they’d be here for eighteen months at least, and Bucky would probably, literally die of stress.

It’s hard to feel lucky when people line the walk into the courthouse and scream that’s he a murderer and a traitor. Yesterday someone threw red paint and Steve ended up splattered with it, attempting to shield Bucky.

Bucky had cried on the ride home after that. It wasn’t the words or the sentiment. It was that the paint looked like blood on Steve’s hands, as though Steve had been marred with Bucky’s sin while trying to protect him.

He’d have pled guilty if that wouldn’t kill Steve. Everyone at the tower calls the prosecutor a snake and a bastard, but Bucky’s agreed with every one of his arguments save for the theory he’s proposed that Bucky was a traitor ever since his initial capture by HYDRA. Even then, Bucky’s not offended by the implication that he would be so weak. Rather, by the implication that Steve wouldn’t have realized.

“Your Honor,” Maria says, standing up from the defense table. She is wearing blue and looks pretty in a stern way. As she moves to the bench, she leaves her purse behind. Bucky can’t see the bear inside, but he knows Bucky Bear isn’t worried. He never is. “The defense calls Reed Richards to the stand.”

Reed Richards is an inventor like Tony. Tony had suggested him. He’d also suggested a Hank Pym, but Maria had gone with Richards because she said he was more well known as a credible source. Bucky doesn’t like Richards very much, but then, he doubts he’d like anyone who made him sit in front of the chair and explain how it was used.

“State your occupation for the record,” Maria says once Richards is sworn in.

“Which one?” Richards asks. “Adventurer, scientist, professor, lecturer—”

“And engineer as well, correct?”

Richards smiles, settling into his seat. “The best in the world.”

Tony is several rows back behind the defense’s table, but Bucky’s enhanced hearing can still catch his snort.

“Thank you. As an engineer and a biologist, you have undertaken a thorough examination of Defense Exhibit H, have you not?”

As she speaks, the doors at the back of the courtroom open. Something heavy is being wheeled down the aisle. The back right wheel of the cart transporting it is loose. Bucky struggles to keep his gaze straight ahead. _Don’t want to see it again can’t see it again breathe breathe can’t cry here._

“I have,” Richards says, as the chair is brought before the bench.

Bucky can’t keep from flinching, eyes dropping to the floor like a scolded dog. They could have brought pictures, but Maria said the real thing would have more impact with the jury.

“Your Honor, I move that Exhibit H be introduced into evidence,” Maria says.

The judge must answer, but Bucky doesn’t hear it. The nails of his working hand are digging into his palm.

“What you see here is an electrical instrument retrieved from the vault of the First National Bank in Washington, DC.” Maria is facing the jury directly now. “As discussed earlier in these proceedings, this bank was a proven front for HYDRA. Records that we found within the vault—Exhibit H-1, which we move be introduced into evidence—designate this instrument as a “maintenance chair,” and list it as a part of post-mission care for the Winter Soldier. Dr. Richards, between your own study of this device, the records, and the input you received from the defendant, are you confident in your assessment of how it operates?”

“Extremely confident.”

“Can you explain, in layman’s terms, the function of this chair?”

“Better than that, I can demonstrate.” Richards begins standing, glancing toward the judge. “If that’s permitted?”

No. No, they can’t turn it on. Not here. They can’t, the chair doesn’t work on its own, it’s powered by signals from a computer—

Bucky turns his head, forces himself to look. The chair is massive. He doesn’t understand how the cart hasn’t collapsed under its weight. It is cold steel and pain and nightmares and.

And there’s a laptop hooked up to it.

Bucky’s not breathing.

“The chair introduces an electrical current into the head of anyone lying in it while it’s active,” Richards explains. He is at the keyboard. “I measured the current at four hundred and sixty volts.”

There’s sweat beading along Bucky’s hairline and under the fabric of his suit. He forces his eyes on Maria’s purse. The bear inside is still, emotionless. He tries to emulate that.

“Is this introduction of current comparable to electroconvulsive therapy?” Maria asks.

“Not by any modern definition of the practice.”

“Why is that, Doctor?”

“ECT—electroconvulsive therapy—is only administered through one or both temporal lobes.” Richards is typing. Each clack of the keyboard feels like a nail in Bucky’s chest. “This system applies the shock to multiple areas: the pre-frontal cortex, the medial temporal lobe, and the hippocampus. Also, ECT is administered to unconscious patients. Both the records and James Barnes’s recollections make no mention of any anesthetic or muscle relaxants being provided. Instead, Barnes was restrained.” Richards pushes another button and the bands that used to clamp over Bucky’s arms spring into place.

Bucky flinches again. One of the legal assistants places a hand on his shoulder. From the row behind him, he can hear Steve whisper, “You’re all right, Buck. You never have to go back to that. You’re all right, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“Furthermore,” Richards is saying. He’s typing and the chair is reclining, head restraints sliding into place. “The electrical shock in ECT is administered for a few seconds. This device supplies a steady current for thirty seconds total.”

There’s a flare of blue light, a crackling. The air smells of ozone and hurt. Bucky’s trembling. He’s not supposed to make a scene but he’s shaking. His eyes are wet. He can’t think beyond _please don’t make me do it again please I’ll be good I’ll be better for you if I can remember don’t let them hurt me Daddy please please please please please._

Just as he thinks his heart is failing, the chair powers down.

There are whispers throughout the court.

“You mentioned before that the areas targeted were the pre-frontal cortex, the hippocampus, and the medial temporal lobe,” Maria says. “Doctor, as a biologist, can you explain what effect an electrical current to these areas of the brain would cause?”

Richards is moving back into his seat now. “Definite damage to the short term memory and the formation of long term memories that aren’t task-based. So things like tying shoes? That would be left alone. A conversation the day prior? Wiped away. There would be pain upon waking from the shocks and muscle tremors, confusion.”

“Suggestibility?”

“That’s definitely possible.”

“No further questions.” Maria returns to her seat. She smiles at Bucky and mouths that he was perfect, even though there are silent tears on his face and he’s made a scene and done everything he’s been told not to.

“Among your many qualifications, Dr. Richards,” Prosecutor Tower says, standing, “I notice that medical doctor was not listed.”

“It’s one of the few PhDs I’ve yet to earn,” Richards agrees. “I have made thorough studies of the human anatomy and its functions earning a doctorate in biology, however.”

“Certainly. But during your observations of the chair, did you ever experiment on a living subject? Observe the effects first hand?”

“Given that torture in the name of scientific research is both illegal and unethical,” Richards says, “no.”

“So you cannot state with absolute certainty that your educated guesses on the machine’s effects are accurate?” Tower is gathering papers, approaching the stand.

“Not absolutely.”

“I have here a scan of the defendant’s brain,” Tower says, handing over one of the pages. “Previously submitted as evidence. In this image, Doctor, do you see any lesions or other damage associated with repeated electrocution?”

“I don’t see any damage whatsoever.” Richards tilts the paper, studying. “But given Barnes’s accelerated healing, that’s not surprising.”

“Couldn’t that accelerated healing negate the effects of the electrical shock that you mentioned?”

“Possibly. I wouldn’t think it would completely cancel them out.”

“Now, the records you examined listed the chair as a part of the Winter Soldier’s handling post-mission.” Tower replaces the medical scan with those records. “But it doesn’t list the number of times the chair was used or state if it was a part of procedures anywhere other than the First National Bank vault, isn’t that true?”

“That’s true. It’s Barnes who said it was used after every mission.”

“Of course he did,” says Tower. “No further questions.”

*

Bucky’s face is buried against Daddy’s shoulder. His left arm is working again and so he has both wrapped tightly around his daddy. He’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting this way; as soon as they got home from the courthouse and changed out of their suits, Bucky had grabbed onto Daddy and refused to let go. They’ve been sitting on Bucky’s bed, his daddy’s hand stroking his hair, for probably hours, because Bruce brought them dinner there.

Bucky hadn’t been hungry, but he ate because Daddy would worry otherwise. His stomach already hurt, and now it’s worse.

“It’s okay,” Daddy whispers. He’s been talking, soothing, for as long as they’ve been sitting. His voice must be tired, but thinking of that only makes Bucky cling tighter. “No one’s going to hurt you again, Bucky. You were so brave today. I’m so proud of you.”

“They’re gonna take me away,” Bucky mumbles. His eyes are wet again and he doesn’t feel brave. He should be stronger than this. Daddy has enough to do without hugging and rocking him for hours.

“No one’s taking you away ever again,” Daddy says. “Anyone who tries has to go through me.”

Bucky just wrenches his eyes shut. Daddy can’t promise that. Even if Bucky’s found not guilty, they can still put him in a hospital. If Daddy tries to fight that, they might arrest him or say he can’t be Captain America anymore.

“’M sorry,” Bucky says, as if that fixes anything.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

But that’s not true.

Bucky closes his eyes, holding each breath for ten seconds like Bruce taught him. He can still hear the chair whirring, still see the faces of the people outside the courthouse, twisted with anger and hate.

“You should get some rest, Buck,” Daddy says. “It would help you feel better.”

“Can’t.” His mind is too loud and fast to sleep, but as he says it, Bucky remembers the kitchen that morning. His face tinges red, and he’s glad his hair is shielding it.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re still having trouble sleeping?” Daddy asks. “I wouldn’t be mad. I’ll never be mad at you, Bucky. You know that?”

“Uh-huh.” He knows that since he got here, no one’s ever punished him the way his last daddy would. Not for wetting the bed or for anything else. But it’s not just about the punishment. It’s about digging his nails into what little dignity he has left and holding tight.

Daddy’s hand is on his chin, gently raising his head. “I just wanna make sure you’re as happy and safe as possible,” he says. “I know how hard this is, Bucky, and I’m sorry I can’t shield you from the trial. But I think it might not be as bad if you were getting any sleep.”

“Can’t, Daddy.” Bucky really doesn’t want to argue. But he doesn’t want to lie, either. Not again.

“You could wear protection—”

Bucky jerks his head free and hides his face against Daddy’s shoulder again. “No.”

“Not as a punishment.” Daddy says it fast, hugging tight. “Just to make you comfortable, to keep from waking up. Bucky, it’s not healthy to—”

“ _No_.”

“It’d be something you could take care of. No one else would ever have to know if you didn’t want them to—”

“Don’t _wanna_.” His voice cracks. He’s talking back, but Bucky can’t help it. Of everything broken and crumbling in his life, he’s not going to add this. He _can’t._

“Okay. That’s okay.” Daddy’s voice is so soft even when Bucky’s disobedient, and his hand is back to petting Bucky’s hair. “I just wanted to help you feel better, that’s all. I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want, Buck.”

Bucky just slumps against him, empty and so tired. “Don’t wanna talk about anything,” he whispers. Not after today, when he had to be next to the chair. Maybe not ever again. He’s so sleepy.

“You wanna watch a movie?”

“Uh-uh.”

“We could play with your bears,” Daddy offers, very gently tickling Bucky’s ribs. “Or color. Or get sorbet. Whatever you want to do, Bucky. What would make you feel happy?”

“Tell me a story,” Bucky says, and Daddy carries him over to the bookshelf because neither of them wants to let go.

The story is about a princess who lives on a hill made out of glass. There are a lot of men who want her, but no one can reach her except for a boy with magic horses. The princess doesn’t mind him, though, and gives that boy golden apples so they can always be together.

Bucky doesn’t sleep at all that night. Whenever he shuts his eyes, he sees blue light and sparks.

*

“Dr. Worth,” Maria says. She’s in gray today. Her purse matches, and it’s a little bigger than her black handbag. Bucky Bear can stretch out inside this one. “James Barnes has been your psychiatric patient for the past six months, is that correct?”

“Seven next week.” Dr. Worth pushes his glasses up on his nose. Bucky’s never seen him in a suit before. He doesn’t dress much like a doctor usually. Bucky’s not sure if that’s with all patients or just with the one whose doctors used to electrocute him. “He’s had sessions with my wife as well for the past five months.”

“How did you come to know Sergeant Barnes?” Maria asks.

“Through Tony Stark.” He doesn’t say that Tony’s also a patient, albeit an infrequent one. Maybe he can’t say that in court. “He informed me that he had a sick friend and asked if I could make house calls.”

“What was your initial impression of Sergeant Barnes?”

“That his behavior was consistent with someone who’s been severely traumatized,” Dr. Worth says. “He wouldn’t speak to me for three weeks. He sat as far from me as he could, hunched in on himself, and flinched whenever I spoke. At first, he refused to be in a room with me unless Captain Rogers was also present. Once, the Captain was called away with the Avengers and James suffered a panic attack.”

Bucky remembers that. It was the first time he’d spoken to the doctor, hyperventilating on a couch. _I want my daddy,_ he’d said. He’d felt so alone, so afraid, and he still isn’t sure which daddy he meant or if it had even mattered in that moment.

“Were you able to effectively communicate after those initial few weeks?” Maria asks.

At the table beside Bucky, one of the legal assistants is preparing a tape player. His stomach goes cold.

“Yes, particularly after my wife joined in on our sessions.”

“Through the course of your sessions, you’ve been able to diagnose Sergeant Barnes, have you not?”

“I have.”

Maria turns to face the jury although she’s still addressing Dr. Worth. “Can you explain to the court what conditions Sergeant Barnes has been diagnosed with, and why?”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder, firstly. James exhibited flashbacks and nightmares regarding his time as the Winter Soldier, insomnia and nocturnal enuresis, the inability to perceive positive emotions, intense guilt, aggressive outbursts, overwhelming shame—before we could prescribe antidepressants and mood stabilizers to match his metabolism, James was showing signs of psychotic depression. He’d become convinced that his blood had stopped circulating.”

“You specialize in treating post-traumatic veterans, is that correct?”

“Yes. I believe that’s why I was introduced to James in the first place.”

“I have here an audio excerpt from your session with Sergeant Barnes on September ninth,” Maria says, retrieving the tape player from the table. “Your Honor, I move that Exhibit M be introduced into evidence. Could you give this tape a listen and inform the court if this is consistent with your diagnosis, and your interactions with Sergeant Barnes overall?”

There’s a burst of static. 

“Did you sleep last night?” Dr. Worth is asking. His voice is very loud, turned up so every juror will hear it. And every reporter. Bucky goes colder.

“Tried.” His voice sounds funny on tape, a little higher and a lot flatter. “Couldn’t. Pissed the bed again. I—I don’t understand how _that_ still flows when the rest’s dried out.”

A pause. “What do you mean, James?”

“My blood stopped, hasn’t it? It’s gone. They took it away, ‘cause I took everyone else’s. They took it away, except they let it get dry and hard in my hands, so they’re red all the time. Even the metal one. I—I can’t _move_ them. And when I close my eyes at night, everyone I killed is there and I try and reach out, try and stop myself from hurting them again, but there’s no blood and I can’t _move_.”

“Who do you think took your blood?”

“God?” There’s a loud, humorless, wet laugh, and some people in the courtroom jump. “HYDRA, I don’t know. Maybe the people I killed. They should have it back. They deserve it more than me.”

“Your blood hasn’t stopped, James,” Dr. Worth says. “You’d be dead if it had.”

“They stopped it because I should be dead.”

“Yesterday, you said that you were going to try and stop blaming yourself for the things HYDRA made you do, remember? Yesterday, you said that they forced you to hurt those people, and you shouldn’t hold yourself accountable.”

“Then yesterday I _fucking lied_!”

There’s silence on the tape before there’s a quick, ragged inhalation.

“James—”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is wet again.

“You don’t have to apologize for—”

“I’m sorry don’t be mad I’ll be good I won’t yell you don’t have to punish me I’ll be good I’ll be so good I’m sorry—”

“You’re not with HYDRA now, James. No one will punish you for expressing—”

“They’ll hear you!” he hisses. “Please, I’m sorry—I’m—”

Maria shuts off the tape. “Dr. Worth?”

“That’s characteristic of a session before he went on medication, yes.” He pushes his glasses up again. The overhead lights are reflecting off the lenses. Bucky likes that. Any pity in the doctor’s eyes is hidden that way. “You can see the symptoms I mentions displayed in that tape: the mood swings, the self-loathing and delusions, the bedwetting.”

“What about Sergeant Barnes’s rapid apologies and fear of being overheard?” Maria asks. She’s back at the table, returning the tape player. “Is that indicative of post-traumatic stress disorder?”

“It’s not incongruous with the condition. However, in this circumstance, it’s more indicative of his other diagnoses: dissociative disorder not otherwise specified and battered person syndrome.”

“Battered person syndrome?” she repeats. “Can you define that for the court?”

“It’s a syndrome that develops when a person fears for their life due to any form of abuse occurring for a month or more. The victim may be manipulated through threats or isolation. Eventually, they believe that their abusers are omnipotent and that the abuse will always reoccur. They blame themselves for their abuse and may lash out against their abusers or seek to make their abusers happy to spare further pain.”

Bucky’s eyes are fixed on Maria’s purse again. He tries to pretend that the doctor’s just talking to Steve, that his life isn’t being laid bare for the world to pick at.

“You were present to hear Dr. Kozol’s testimony on brainwashing and Stockholm syndrome yesterday, Dr. Worth, were you not?”

“I was.”

“Did you agree with Dr. Kozol’s assessment of Sergeant Barnes as suffering from Stockholm syndrome?”

“Yes.”

“Why then,” she asks, slowly making her way back to the stand, “is Stockholm syndrome not one of your diagnoses?”

“It’s not recognized as a mental disorder by either the DSM or the ICD, merely a psychological phenomenon.” He’s removed his glasses to wipe at them and Bucky looks down at the floor. “However, it is comparable to battered person syndrome.”

“Were you also able to review the evidence presented to Dr. Kozol yesterday in the file from the Moscow HYDRA base regarding the Winter Soldier’s conditioning?”

Next to Bucky, the assistant is swiping out the tape in the player for another.

“I was.”

“In your professional medical opinion, would the punishments and periods of sensory deprivation recorded in that file provide a foundation of abuse for battered person syndrome to form?”

“Flawlessly.”

Maria turns to the jury. “So is it fair to assume that James Barnes has believed himself to be observed by and under threat from omniscient abusers since at least 1952, Doctor?”

“Objection!” says Tower from the prosecution’s table. “Speculation.”

“Sustained,” the judge says.

“Dr. Worth,” Maria continues, not skipping a beat. “You said that your wife also participated in your sessions with Sergeant Barnes. What is her focus?”

“Miriam’s primary field is pediatric psychology.”

There are confused murmurs through the courtroom.

“Why did you bring in a child psychologist to assist in the care of a traumatized adult?” Maria asks.

Somewhere far from where Bucky’s mind wants to be, he’s biting down hard on his lip.

“I mentioned that one of James’s diagnoses was dissociative disorder not otherwise specified,” Dr. Worth begins.

 _I’m not here,_ Bucky thinks. He’s not supposed to shut his eyes, but he can’t help it. He has to sit on his hand to keep from pulling his hair out of its ponytail to hide his face. _I’m not here._

“In this case, the dissociative symptom that prompted me to call in my wife involved a shift in James’s identity.”

“A second personality?” Maria clarifies.

“Not in the sense that establishes dissociative identity disorder. There was no observed amnesia or loss of time.”

Bucky risks opening one eye. The doctor’s glasses are back on, but that doesn’t help anymore.

“Instead, he simply regressed into a younger mental state, usually during periods of high stress. Yesterday’s testimony brought up the Latin trigger words used to give James orders as the Soldier. According to James’s recollections in our sessions, the late Secretary of Defense gave him one such order to reduce him to the mindset of a child, around the age of five years old.”

The whispers in the court are much louder now. They sound sharp to Bucky’s ears, judging.

“Did Sergeant Barnes state the function of this order?” Maria asks. “What would it benefit HYDRA to make their weapon into a child?”

“It wasn’t for HYDRA at large, according to James,” Dr. Worth says. “It was for Alexander Pierce’s sexual fantasies.”

The courtroom explodes.

There are flashbulbs going off from seemingly every direction, the clack of phones no doubt tweeting and texting this information the world over. The judge is banging his gavel and Bucky thinks he’s calling for order, but he can’t be heard over all the shouting. There are no distinct words; there are too many voices and Bucky’s heart is too loud for comprehension. The incoherence offers no solace.

“Objection!” Tower yells, on his feet now. “Relevance?”

“The defense posits that Sergeant Barnes was manipulated into his crimes through abuse,” Maria says just as loudly. “The methods used to manipulate him are extremely relevant.”

“Overruled,” the judge barks. “There will be order in this court or I will clear the room.”

Things don’t fall into dead silence. There are still whispers hissing at the edges of Bucky’s hearing. But it must be quiet enough, because the judge tells Maria to proceed.

“I have another audio excerpt, this one from a session on December the fifteenth,” Maria says. She retrieves the tape player so calmly, as though Bucky’s heart hasn’t stopped. He misses whatever else she says, because all he can hear is his own shaking breathing and the crackle of the tape.

“How can I say it?” His own voice again, so shaky. “No one would—Steve wouldn’t understand. _I_ don’t understand.”

No. Not this session. Not here, not where there are cameras. Anything but this.

“It’s natural to feel confusion,” Miriam is saying. “Even loneliness.”

“I’m not lonely,” he protests. “I’m just—sometimes I miss him.” His voice is shifting, a hint lighter and far less resonant. There’s the faintest lisp to the word “miss.”

“Who?”

“Daddy.”

“Pierce?”

“Uh-huh. He wasn’t—I—sometimes he was really nice to me. A lot, after I was done being an asset. We’d color or, uh, he gave me a bunny rabbit, an’ he let me try cookies. Um, he told bedtime stories an’ brushed my hair...sometimes even the bad games felt...good. Funny. Not bad. I dunno. But I can’t say that stuff.”

It’s still not a pronounced lisp, but now it’s noticeable.

“What do you think would happen if you told Steve how you felt?”

“He’d be sad. Or mad at HYDRA. An’ maybe, uh, maybe not wanna do stuff like that with me anymore. He’s not like my last daddy. I don’t—I don’t think he really likes to play with me.”

“And you think Pierce did?”

“He wanted me to be his little boy. An’ he always said he loved me, an’ I was such a good boy, his, um, his perfect little snowflake, an’ saving the world for him. I—sometimes, I want my daddy now to do that too, but—” A pause. A sniffle. “If we do _those_ things, maybe we hafta—I didn’t like—an’ Daddy’s really big and tall.”

“Why does Steve’s size matter, Bucky?”

“It was, um, hard to breathe when I played with my first daddy. His penis is gonna be bigger—”

And the room goes back into chaos.

Bucky doesn’t hear, doesn’t see. He doesn’t even think. He’s overcome by the shame burning white hot inside him, and by the time he can focus on anything outside of it, the prosecutor is up and cross-examining.

“—true that post-traumatic stress disorder was not unheard of in World War II?” Tower is asking.

“They referred to it as battle fatigue,” Dr. Worth says. “But yes, it was far from uncommon.”

“So it’s a condition that the defendant would likely have seen in the war?”

“Almost certainly.”

“I have here a transcript of your session with the Winter Soldier on October third.” Tower extends a stack of papers. “Can you read aloud the Soldier’s words as they are highlighted?”

“‘The Russians had me act on some missions,’” the doctor recites. “‘Pose as a delivery man to get into a guarded location, or smile and flirt at a bar to get an investigative reporter alone. My emotions—I felt so dead inside, but they could pull them back up like, like a wind-up toy. I could grin and smile and no one ever knew.’”

“Isn’t it possible that the Winter Soldier observed post-traumatic stress disorder and emulated its symptoms, Doctor?”

“He’d have to be the greatest actor I’ve ever—”

“But isn’t it possible?”

“Theoretically.”

“Isn’t it possible that all of the Soldier’s symptoms are a ruse to gain trust and sympathy?”

“Objection,” says Maria. She’s back at the table, her hand briefly squeezing Bucky’s knee. “Speculation.”

“Overruled.”

“It’s _possible_ ,” Dr. Worth says, but the way he says it, the “no” is clear.

“You mentioned that the defendant has battered person syndrome,” Tower continues. “Is that analogous to battered wife syndrome?”

“It’s a less specific term for the same condition, yes.”

“But isn’t the battered wife syndrome often brought up in relation to homicide cases? Women who felt their lives were threatened and so fought back against their attackers?”

“Those are the most publicized cases,” Dr. Worth says. “Everyone responds to trauma differently. Elizabeth Smart, for example, was held captive, threatened, and brainwashed, but she didn’t attempt to fight or flee from her captors, even though she was discovered less than eighteen miles from her home.”

“But Elizabeth Smart was a teenage girl. Not a genetically enhanced assassin.”

“Anyone can fall victim to abuse and coercion,” the doctor counters.

“But had he attempted to run, don’t you think he could have dismantled anyone in his path?”

“Objection,” Maria says. “The witness is not a combat expert.”

“Sustained.”

“Nothing further,” Tower says. He’s not yet back to his seat before Maria is standing again.

“A few more questions, Doctor. When you took on Sergeant Barnes’s case, why didn’t you contact the authorities?”

“I’m bound by patient confidentiality in regards to past crimes. We’re only meant to report the current abuse of the elderly, underage, or disabled, or matters of present suicidal or homicidal risk.”

“And you never viewed Sergeant Barnes as a current risk to the lives of those around him?” she asks.

“Not once.”

“But you mentioned mood swings,” Maria says. “And delusions. You didn’t view those things, combined with his enhanced physiology, as a threat to the safety of others?”

“At no point during our sessions did I feel I would be acting in good faith to report him to the authorities. I saw no risk that was not well-contained.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

*

There’s a lot less screaming and paint-slinging on the way out of the courthouse today. Mostly, people just stand and stare. Bucky never expected to miss the shouting.

“I didn’t know she was going to play those tapes,” Steve says. “I—I’d never heard those.” His jaw is tense. His _everything_ is tight.

“’Least if I go to jail, I don’t ever have to worry about showing my face in public,” Bucky offers.

“You’re _not_ going to jail, Buck.”

“Kidding,” Bucky says, resting his head against the car window. He feels more than naked. It’s like he’s been skinned and offered up for consumption. He’d told himself once that he was beyond suffering any more indignities, but so much for that.

“I do love you, Bucky,” Steve says softly. He looks as raw as Bucky feels and, not for the first time, Bucky’s grateful the driver can’t see them. “And I do like—like playing with you. I like making you happy—you’re not a burden. You’ll never owe me, not for anything. I’ll never, ever touch you the way Alex did.”

“I know that.” He pulls his hair from his ponytail, trying to cover the blush spreading on his face. “I just—that was a bad week. I was having nightmares, and—and I don’t always know shit when I’m five.”

“Then I haven’t been taking good enough care of you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve.” Bucky rubs at his forehead with the working hand. “Haven’t we got enough to deal with without you flagellating yourself over something you never even messed up? I don’t want to—this is why I didn’t want to talk to you about—I—I’m so fucking tired.”

“You need to sleep.” Steve’s hand is on his shoulder, rubbing. He wants to push him away, but he also wants to hug onto him and never let go. Bucky settles for not moving. That’s easiest. “I mean really sleep, Bucky. Even our bodies can’t sustain what you’re putting yourself through.”

“I _know_.” He wrenches his eyes shut. “I fucking _know_ , Steve. I _can’t_. It’s not a choice.”

“I really think if you wore—”

“I’m almost _thirty,_ ” Bucky snaps, shifting out of Steve’s reach. “Even when I’m five, that’s _too fucking old_.”

“Twenty percent of five year olds wet the bed,” Steve says.

He’s researched it. Of fucking course. “I’m not five.”

“Two percent of adults wet the bed. Probably more, it’s underreported.”

“I’m not wearing diapers,” Bucky snaps, teeth clenched. “Can we just drop this? I’m not having a good day. You might have noticed.”

“Peggy wears them.” Steve’s stroking his hair, and it’s a testament to their friendship that Bucky doesn’t break his wrist.

“She’s almost a hundred.”

“So are we.”

Bucky doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“That lady on Dancing with the Stars wore them.”

“Only shitty parents use peer pressure,” Bucky informs him.

“What if I wore anything that you—”

“ _Steve_.” His voice breaks. It’s been doing that a lot lately. “Could you just, please, for once in your damn life, shut up? Just—just _hold_ me. Just comfort me _now_ and stop trying to fix everything wrong in the world, would you? Everything D—everything Pierce did to humiliate me is all over the TVs now, the Internet, _everything_. All I want is to forget about that for just one second.”

“Come here,” Steve says, and his arms are wrapped around Bucky. “I’m sorry, Buck. It’s okay.”

“Don’t let go,” he mutters, eyes sliding shut.

“It’s all right. Daddy’s not letting anyone take you away, not ever.”

It’s a pretty lie.

*

Bucky has to admit it’s genius, calling Tony Stark to the stand as a character witness. Genius and kind of sick. Those are the defining traits of all Maria’s defense so far, honestly.

“How did you feel when Captain Rogers first brought Sergeant Barnes to the Stark Tower?” Maria asks.

“Conflicted,” Tony says. Bucky’s seen videos of Tony in court before, but he’s much more subdued now. Much less theatrical. “This is the man who killed my parents. I didn’t want him under my roof. But I trust Steve’s judgment, even when it’s pigheaded. Which it is. A lot.”

“What was your initial impression of Sergeant Barnes?” Maria asks.

“He shoved me against the wall and tried to suffocate me because he didn’t like the nickname I gave him. I tried to keep my distance after that.”

Bucky flushes at the memory. He’s always suspected people just pretend to like him. It shouldn’t sting to have that confirmed, but it does.

“When did your views on Sergeant Barnes change?”

“His seventh day in the tower,” Tony says. “That night, I was with Pepper in the penthouse, and JARVIS—the AI who controls the building—alerted me that Bucky was in my lab. He said he was trying to kill himself.”

“Did you go to the lab?”

“I have this thing about not letting houseguests die on me. Particularly when it would mean months of Captain America brooding. Steve pouts like it’s the national pastime.”

There’s a little titter of laughter in the courtroom. That’s better than all the whispering.

“What did you find upon arriving?”

“Bucky was sitting at one of the work benches. He had his arm—the prosthetic arm—pinned in place with a vice. He was trying to cut it off of himself.”

The bench Tony’s talking about is near the back of the lab, next to where Bruce keeps the blankets and teapot. Bucky’s sat there before. That was where Bruce and Tony taught him how to make soda. The vice is always clamped at the end of it.

He doesn’t remember trying to cut off his arm, but there’s a lot in the early days at the tower that he doesn’t remember. That time is mostly a blur with a few sharp edges before the day that Steve gave him Bucky Bear.

“How did you respond?” Maria asks.

“I called Steve and Bruce Banner to come in and help.” Tony’d been smiling a little when he talked about Steve brooding. He isn’t now. No one’s giggling anymore, either. Bucky wishes they could go back to that. “Pepper and I sat down and tried to get the knife away from him.”

“Physically?”

“I wasn’t about to put my hands on a distressed super soldier with a blade. We tried talking him down.”

He could have called over his robots to grab the blade, couldn’t he? Maybe he hadn’t wanted to risk Bucky damaging them.

“Did Sergeant Barnes respond to you?”

Tony half-nods, half-shrugs. “He was...mostly lucid. Erratic, hysterical—but he seemed to know where he was, who we were. He kept crying and apologizing and slicing at himself.”

“What did he apologize for?”

“What _didn’t_ he?” Tony spreads out his arms. “For coming into the tower, for bleeding on my stuff, for the failure of Project Insight. He said he was sorry for murdering my parents. Then he said—” Tony pauses, coughs. The cough sounds like choking. “He said he was sorry that he couldn’t _remember_ killing them. Because he couldn’t tell me they hadn’t suffered—he didn’t know. He’d be lying.”

Maria gives the words a moment to hang in the air. “Mr. Stark, could you tell the court how you’ve come to feel toward Sergeant Barnes?”

“I think he’s possibly the most innocent man I’ve ever known.” There’s no light to Tony’s eyes, not the faintest lift to his lips. His face looks ashen, set. But honest.

“Even though he confessed to murdering your parents?”

“He was the weapon,” Tony says. “I don’t believe he was any more accountable than a bullet.”

“I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Mr. Stark.” Maria steps back. “No further questions.”

“Did the Winter Soldier ever apologize for weakness?” Tower asks.

“I don’t know anyone by that name.” Tony says it quickly and coldly.

“Did Sergeant Barnes ever apologize for weakness? For allowing himself to be manipulated and misled? In this emotional breakdown you witnessed, Mr. Stark, did he ever direct the blame toward his abusers? At any point, did he indicate a lack of autonomy in his crimes?”

“No.” Tony’s mouth tenses like he’s going to leave it at that, but then he blurts out, “He directed all the blame at himself like a battered child.”

“That’s one thing to compare him to. No further questions.”

*

Steve and Bucky are in the lab that night. Steve’s sorting the mail. Since the trial’s begun, Bucky’s received at least a bag of letters a day. Some are in support; those letters are usually from veterans or people who grew up idolizing the Howling Commandos. Most, Bucky’s surmised, are insults, angry screeds calling him a disgrace to the flag. Some are threats. Steve takes all those letters and burns them. That’s why they’re in the lab: so Steve can sit next to a Bunsen burner and there’s no risk of Bucky seeing anything he shouldn’t.

Usually Bucky sits on Bruce’s blankets. Tonight, that feels too close to the bench he apparently bled all over, so he’s in the other corner with Dum-E and Butterfingers.

“Hey, kiddo.” Tony settles down beside him. “Not playing with Tasha today?”

“She and Clint are shopping.” Bucky doesn’t bother to correct the man as to his current frame of mind. It’d be pedantic, and after today he’s pretty sure that he’s not allowed to criticize anything Tony does ever again. “Thank you,” he mutters, staring down at his socks.

“Don’t mention it,” Tony says. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. Your daddy found you in DC, right? You’ve never really seen any of New York in this century, other than the toy store and the courthouse and that church. Once the trial’s over, we can show you around Brooklyn, if you want. See what’s changed? Or Central Park, or the zoo—anything that you want. Would you like that?”

Bucky would like for the world to forget he exists, which is never going to happen if he leaves the tower. It’s probably never going to happen anyway. But Tony’s trying to cheer him up, to make it sound as though he has any future but a jail cell, so Bucky nods. Then he yawns.

“Tired?” Tony asks.

Bucky can hear paper burning behind them, accompanied by Steve breathing in an indignant way. Whatever that letter said must have been really bad.

“A little.”

Tony is the only one apart from Steve with any real insight into Bucky’s issues with sleep. Bucky half-remembers his second night in the tower, wandering around with his arms full of wet sheets, in search of a laundry room. Tony had found him and led him there, and two days later Bucky’s fitted bed sheets had been discreetly replaced with a new set that had fabric on top and plastic underneath.

It strikes Bucky now that Tony had done that back when he considered Bucky a cold-blooded killer. Bucky’s throat aches a bit.

“You know, Bucky, it’s not my area of expertise , but if you’re still having—” Tony looks as though he’s thinking of many words and trying to pick the most delicate. He sets his hand on Bucky’s knee. “—problems, sleeping, I mean, then I could design something for you. Something subtle. I could make it feel like fabric.”

Bucky’s going to kill Steve. “No.”

“I could give it any pattern you wanted, if that would make you feel better. Iron Man or your daddy’s shield or—”

“Please don’t make me kill you after everything you’ve done for me,” Bucky says.

Tony blinks. “Oh—you’re—I thought—”

“The answer’s no whatever age I am,” Bucky snaps.

Tony appears to be puzzling over what to say next when there’s a noise like Steve shoving his chair back. “What the—”

They’re on their feet immediately, rushing over. Bucky’s mind is full of anthrax and acid and any other deadly substances that could have been slipped in an envelope.

But it’s not acid Steve’s coated with. It’s glitter, silver and red. It’s on his hands and down his front, and there’s more in the envelope he’s holding.

“It was glued shut,” Steve explains. “I guess I pulled too hard.”

Bucky can’t help the smile growing on his face. He shakes his head and, when he looks back up, Steve is smiling too.

“Glitter’s nice, right?” he asks. “See, Bucky, people like you.”

“Uh, yeah,” Tony says. “Glitter’s—it’s a sign of solidarity. Yeah. Absolutely.”

Steve upends the rest of the envelope over Bucky. He shakes his head like a dog, sending glitter flying onto Tony and all around the lab. It takes forever to vacuum the glitter out of his arm later, but it’s worth it. Bucky’s laughing for the first time since the trial started.

*

There are still flecks of glitter on his skin when he trudges into the laundry room that night. He’s not laughing now. Bucky watches his sheets spin through the door of the washer and feels hot, wet tears down his face.

He’s not an idiot. He knew this would happen. He knows that managing four hours of sleep before he woke up soaked this time isn’t an indication that it’s getting better. All it means is his body was too exhausted to bother rousing him for a little bit. It’s never getting better. And he’s never going to be able to sleep.

Scrubbing roughly at his face with the sleeve of his pajamas, Bucky takes a slow and shaking breath. It would be easier to just give into Steve’s nagging. It might even allow him to get something approaching a decent amount of rest. But he can’t. He just _can’t._

For almost as long as he can remember, Bucky’s never had control of anything in his life. He couldn’t choose what he did with his time, what he ate, whom he pointed a gun at, whose dick he put in his mouth. It’s only in this past year that Bucky’s had any sort of autonomy in decades, any say in what his body does. And to acknowledge that he can’t control it, to admit he has the same command of himself as a small child—he can’t. It’s not even pride anymore. It’s a desperate, absurd necessity.

As if not wearing diapers to bed will somehow prove he’s free of HYDRA.

“ _Psst._ ”

Bucky turns his head to find Natasha in the doorway.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I was going to get in an early workout, but then I saw the lights. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he says, sure she can see right through him to his shame swirling in the spin cycle.

“I’m glad you’re up.” Natasha takes his hand. She’s going to end up with glitter on herself. He hopes she doesn’t mind. “I want to show you what I bought yesterday. Clint helped me set it up.”

It’s a bunk bed.

It sits in her room where her bed was before, just as wide with a brushed metal frame. Bucky hadn’t realized anyone made full size bunk beds. Each bed already has a mattress and sheets in place.

“It’s for you,” Natasha explains. “Well, for us. Since you don’t like sharing beds. I figured you can sleep in here later tonight, or whenever you need to. I call the top bunk. Do you love it?”

“Thank you,” is all Bucky can say. The words are sharp glass shards in his throat.

*

“Okay,” Bucky mutters on the drive to the courthouse.

Steve looks up from his phone. “Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll wear them.” Bucky pulls his feet onto the seat, arms around his knees. He’s wrinkling his suit, but he doesn’t give a damn. “Tonight. But I don’t have anything.”

“I got you a box,” Steve says.

Of course.

“You just pull them on like briefs, Buck, so you won’t need any help. I got wipes too, if you—”

“Shut up, Steve.”

He shuts up. That doesn’t stop Bucky from feeling his smile.

*

It’s clear Rumlow’s a burn victim from the way that he moves.

His face, hands, and neck don’t have much scarring. Maria says he was a candidate for an experimental “spray-on skin” treatment, and it helped to heal his wounds faster and to reduce the formation of scar tissue. But there must be burns below his clothing that didn’t qualify for the treatment, because he walks to the stand as though his skin is too tight. Rumlow’s just slightly hunched forward, his gait much stiffer than Bucky can remember.

“When did you first meet Sergeant Barnes?” Maria asks.

“July sixth, 2002.”

“And from that time to the present, how many missions did you serve with Sergeant Barnes?”

“Twelve.”

In the row behind Bucky, Steve’s breathing indignantly again.

“Of those twelve, how many times did you witness Sergeant Barnes undergoing the electrical chair procedure upon the mission’s completion?”

“Eight,” Rumlow says. “Every time I saw the maintenance procedures. The other four, I wasn’t there when they were putting him back in the ice.”

“In your experience, how did the technicians refer to the procedure?”

“They called it a wipe.” Rumlow’s tone is nonchalant. He hasn’t so much as glanced at Bucky, which is both relieving and somehow infuriating. “We’d return to the base, deliver a mission report, the techs would check him over for injuries, and then they’d lead him to the chair. ‘Let’s get him wiped,’ they’d say.”

“What the function of this ‘wipe’ ever explained to you?” Maria asks.

“Not directly, no. They didn’t need to explain it. The Soldier—he recognized his surroundings before they’d get him in the chair. He’d look at you like he knew you. And then once he came back out, he didn’t know where anything was. He’d stare like he’d never seen any of us before.”

“In your experience, was the wipe ever applied as a punishment?”

“Only once, kind of. Most of the time they treated it like standard operating procedure. Like clearing out user data or something.”

“Can you detail for the court the exceptional application?”

“It was right after the fight with Cap and the Widow—Romanoff—in DC.” Rumlow takes a drink of water. His hands are steady on the glass. “We got him back to the bank vault, but he wasn’t focusing. The Secretary tried to set him back on course, told him that we were saving the world and needed his help and all of that. But he just kept asking about Rogers, saying he knew him. So Pierce ordered him to be wiped.”

Bucky has no memory of that. Behind him, Steve hisses a breath through his teeth.

“You also accompanied Sergeant Barnes in the field on the Pembry mission, did you not?”

For the first time, Rumlow winces. “Yeah. Yes.”

“Was that a typical mission for you?”

“No. Not remotely.”

“What made that mission stand out, Mr. Rumlow?” Maria asks.

“We were holed up in the bell tower of this church so the Soldier could make his shot.” Rumlow’s staring down into his glass of water. Bucky thinks he’s meant to be making eye contact. “There was a priest in the sanctuary, practicing Latin chants. Something about it, either right before or right after the Soldier shot the target—it triggered him. Made him...regress.”

“How did his behavior change?”

“He drew in on himself,” Rumlow says. “Flinched away from us, hid under the sink and cried when we demanded answers. He said he wasn’t supposed to be here, that he only came out when his—his daddy—the Secretary, he said—wanted to play.”

“Was he distraught?” Maria asks.

“Objection,” Tower says. “Leading.”

“Sustained.”

Maria rephrases. “How would you describe his emotional state as you awaited extraction, Mr. Rumlow?”

“Terrified.” Rumlow takes another drink, and Bucky thinks he makes the movements slower than necessary. “He kept thinking he would be punished, tried to, uh, to—he tried to masturbate me by sitting on my lap and grinding, saying he owed me. He was crying over the target he shot.”

The whispers are starting up again. Bucky can’t hear Steve breathing anymore.

“How did you respond to his demeanor?”

“Tried to keep him calm and prayed he’d be back to normal before Pierce found out we knew.” Rumlow swallows hard. “Uh, made him dinner, let him watch TV, told him a bedtime story.”

“What story was that?” Maria asks.

“Your Honor,” says Tower. “Relevance?”

“If the witness is allowed to answer, the relevance will be clear.”

“I’ll allow it,” says the judge. “Continue, Mr. Rumlow.”

“Jack—Agent Rollins—told him The Three Little Pigs,” Rumlow says. “But before that, he was asking for a different story. He said it was the one Pierce always told, about a little boy whose friend made trouble for everybody, and made the little boy lose his arm.”

Bucky can hear Steve again. He hears his breath hitch.

“He said in the story, the boy’s dad gave him a new arm and then the boy helped save the world. Made his dad proud.”

The wood of the bench is creaking under Steve’s fingers. Bucky hopes he doesn’t snap it. That would be so loud and Steve would be thrown out of the courtroom.

“For a mission over eight years ago,” says Maria, “you remember that story very clearly.”

“That’s not the kind of shit you forget.”

“Do you recall anything else noteworthy that Sergeant Barnes said or did during the Pembry mission?”

“Yeah.” Rumlow isn’t making eye contact again. “He said—after I told him not to—to grind on me, he said that he wished I was his daddy.”

The wood does crack then, but it’s drowned out by all the voices and phones.

“Mr. Rumlow,” Maria says once the judge makes everyone shut up. “In your opinion, as informed by your observations of Sergeant Barnes over the years, did he ever act of his own free will?”

“Not ever.”

“The defense rests.”

*

Bucky’s wearing his Captain America pajamas that he’s never actually slept in, lining up all of his stuffed bears along the foot of the bed. It had taken two trips in the elevator to bring all the Bearvengers to Tasha’s room, but he couldn’t leave any of them behind. They’d be lonely.

Bucky Bear doesn’t go at the foot of the bed. Instead, Bucky hangs onto him while he’s sleeping. The other Bearvengers don’t mind; they have an understanding about Bucky Bear’s position guarding Bucky as he sleeps.

Clint pulls the blankets over Bucky once the bears are settled, and then stands up to do the same for Tasha. “What story do you want to hear?” he asks.

“Tell Bucky about Budapest,” Tasha demands.

Clint does, although Tasha keeps interrupting and throwing Red Panda at him for “telling it wrong.”

“Tasha and I remember Budapest very differently,” Clint explains.

Tomorrow, Maria and the prosecutor will deliver their closing arguments and then the jury will go into deliberations. Maria’s had a lot of people talk about Bucky: his doctors, Tony, Rumlow, a very old guard from the Russian base who spoke about the time they made Bucky clean the floors with his tongue. Doctors who specialize in brainwashing and cults. Doctors who held up Bucky’s drawings and pointed out signs of abuse and trauma. Maria’s brought in a lot of files too, and the cage the Russians had Bucky sleep in when he was bad. She even found an old recording of Bucky’s handlers telling him how much he was helping when he asked why he was being sent after a target.

Daddy says no one with two brain cells in their head could find Bucky guilty.

Bucky can’t see why anyone would find him innocent. He tries not to get his hopes up. He doesn’t think he could hope about anything before his doctors gave him medicine to help his feelings. Maybe he shouldn’t take any tomorrow. That might make the verdict easier to handle.

Except Maria said it might take days to reach a verdict, and if he goes days without the medicine, he could get sick.

Bucky’s asleep before he finds out what happened in Budapest.

When he wakes up, there’s morning sunlight filtering through the window. Tasha’s lying beside him, on top of the sheets. She’s awake.

“Morning,” she says.

Bucky just stares.

“You were crying in your sleep,” she says. “I came down and held your hand and you stopped. So I went back to my bed, but you did it again. So I just stayed here.”

Bucky runs his hand over the bedspread, slowly and secretly. The sheets aren’t wet. “Weren’t you cold?”

“Nope,” she says. “I’m gonna get breakfast. You want anything?”

“I need to take a shower,” Bucky says as Tasha slides off of the bed.

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Don’t take too long, Bucky. You’ve gotta eat something before you go to court.”

*

The jury’s been deliberating for fifty minutes, and Bucky doesn’t understand what’s kept him from vomiting his breakfast on his own shoes.

“You need to relax, Bucky,” Maria says. She always seems so calm. Bucky imagines she was a very good agent before she came to Stark Industries. “This could take days. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“Here.” Steve takes a tablet from the briefcase he’s been taking in and out of the courthouse each day. “I’ve got Disney, would that help?”

Bucky stops pacing. His legs are shaking—the nervous energy has to come out _somehow_ —but he at least manages to keep his eyes focused in the direction of the screen. He’s almost breathing steadily by the time Scuttle’s explaining dinglehoppers and snarfblatts to Princess Ariel.

But that’s when the door opens.

“They’ve reached a verdict.”

“What?” Steve says. He nearly drops the tablet. “That—it’s only been—”

Bucky doesn’t hear anything after that. He doesn’t feel anything. His mind is full of white noise and the echo of his heartbeat and that’s all he can perceive as they’re shuffled back into the courtroom. This is it. This is the end. And it only took sixty minutes for a jury of his peers to realize what Bucky’s known all along: People are dead, and there have to be reparations.

He only hopes that Steve doesn’t fight it. The world needs Captain America. It doesn’t need a Winter Soldier. Not anywhere but behind bars.

One of the jurors is standing, addressing the judge.

And Bucky tries to focus. He should at least hear the words that condemn him.

But by the time his stunned mind responds, the juror’s closed her mouth. The court erupts into screaming. There are flashbulbs all around, cameras directed at Bucky’s blank face. He doesn’t understand until Steve grabs hold of him. Until he shifts in Steve’s grip enough to see his face. It’s stained with tears.

But below the tears, Steve is smiling.

And only then does Bucky realizes that the juror’s words were _not guilty._

**Author's Note:**

> Tower is the name of the prosecutor in _The Trial of Captain America_ comic story arc, spanning from _Captain America_ #611 to #614. That comic arc also involved Bucky being put on trial for his crimes as the Winter Soldier.
> 
> The story Steve reads to Bucky is [The Princess on the Glass Hill.](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/lfb/bl/blfb34.htm)
> 
> Bucky's speaking patterns as a child are more pronounced in the tape recording as opposed to his usual little dialogue (with the "an'" and the "hafta") simply to demonstrate the difference without actions to help highlight his mindset.
> 
> The [Elizabeth Smart kidnapping](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Smart_kidnapping) was a highly publicized kidnapping case in the United States. Smart was a teen abducted from her bedroom in 2002 and recovered nine months later, eighteen miles from her home.
> 
> When Steve mentions _Dancing with the Stars_ , he's referring to the [Depends commercial](http://www.ispot.tv/ad/7ofe/depend-silhouette-featuring-cheryl-burke) with Cheryl Burke dancing in a Depend Silhouette.
> 
> The envelope of glitter is a form of glitterbombing, which is not a compliment or sign of solidarity in the least.
> 
> The [spray-on skin treatment](http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2014/01/09/treatment-a-breakthrough-for-burn-victims/4402521/) that Rumlow received is a real, albeit currently experimental medical procedure.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Perfect Little Snowflake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3527060) by [WhatEvenAmI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI)




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